


In Paradisum

by floweringscrubs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Latin, M/M, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, crowley is actually so good, i'm not catholic friends so if anything's wrong its my fault, overuse of latin, the cinnamonbolism, the teeniest bit of angst if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 20:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweringscrubs/pseuds/floweringscrubs
Summary: Through the strongest acts of sheer will which Aziraphale had ever borne witness-- over thousands of years of thankless earthly existence, and with all the right in the universe to be bitter, to be cold-- Crowley had continued to act with integrity, from his own heart, simply because he believed he could. And what was faith if not belief in the impossible?





	In Paradisum

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic came to me in passing and grew into something more symbolic and lovely than I could have ever imagined. Any mistakes with regard to christian practices are mine. Latin translations in the end notes.

“Come on Angel,” Crowley urges, half-seriously shoving Aziraphale through the bathroom door. “It’ll be good I swear.” 

He complies after a moment, of course, looking indignant as he’s immediately engulfed in steam, the sound of water raining down on stone seeming distant, despite his knowledge that the shower is only a few feet away.

Aziraphale sighs, looking up at Crowley with quickly fading annoyance. “I already took a proper shower yesterday and the day before, dear. Three in as many days might be more than I’ve had in the last century. Whatever does it matter anyway?”

“It’s just,” Crowley starts, rubbing at the sides of Aziraphale’s arms in a way he hopes is placating. “It’s nice to have a… a routine, ya know? We don’t have much to do these days and it just… seems right, I guess.” 

The angel opens his mouth to protest and shuts it again with a sort of shrug. 

In reality, Crowley’s right. After armagedidn’t, angel and demon both had found themselves with a sort of safety and freedom that neither had anticipated. And then they’d found themselves spending quite an innumerable amount of weeks tossing about in bed, drinking in six thousand years worth of each other.

But now, after moving to a quiet cottage in South Downs and making something of a home together, they found themselves with quite a bit more free time than either being had really accounted for. Of course there were always books to read and gardens to tend and pleasure to have, but it did make a good bit of sense that they conducted their lives in a rather human pattern. Sleeping at night and three meals a day and all that. 

And so, the last two days, Crowley had begun making Aziraphale bathe before bed. Objectively speaking, the angel didn’t find it too terribly strange, but it had come about rather suddenly, and it wasn’t as if either of them _ needed _to shower. They could simply stay clean by sheer virtue of believing just that. Aziraphale had been wearing the same suit for the last fifty years, for someone’s sake. 

And really, he didn’t think Crowley had even been taking his own advice for as insistent as he was that the angel shower nightly. 

“Maybe I would be more inclined…” the angel starts, his voice dropping to a lower pitch than usual as he fingers the lapels of Crowley’s deep velvet jacket, “If you wanted to join me?” 

Aziraphale’s smirk is decidedly wicked as he watches Crowley’s adam’s apple bob up and down with a hard swallow. He hesitates just a moment too long for the opportunity to press his lips to that long, pearly throat and Crowley takes a step back, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling a bit sheepishly at the angel. 

“No, no really angel,” he says, backing out of the bathroom. “You listened to me about sleeping right? Just…” 

Aziraphale looks on annoyed for a moment longer as Crowley shuts the door, then sighs, resigning himself to the task at hand and swiftly undressing. He has to admit, the scalding water does do wonders for his back muscles, especially those that support the weight of his wings-- however metaphysical. 

That said, the angel simply doesn’t enjoy a good shower the way Crowley does. And if he’s being honest, sleep is lovely, but not as lovely as lying with Crowley in his arms for seven to ten hours straight. In fact, Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s ever seen the demon so relaxed and carefree as when he sleeps, and that’s enough to make the human routines worth it. 

As far as he’s concerned though, getting sufficiently wet and drying off again is a good enough shower now that Crowley’s not watching. It’s not like he ever smells any different, anyway. The scent of parchment and dust and hints of sandalwood and lilac had been long decided upon, and his serpent bedfellow would be none the wiser. 

So with that, Aziraphale dries off, wraps a towel around his waist casually, and strides to the bedroom. 

Since they’d started sleeping together, Crowley and Aziraphale hadn’t been much for physical boundaries. They’d spent so long looking over their shoulders that the ability to simply move about freely was an immense luxury, but something intrinsic halts the angel’s hand as it reaches for the doorknob. 

He cocks his head at the wood of the door, straining to hear murmured words from the other side. Instinct tells him to grab the knob slowly, turning it without a sound and peeking around the frame. 

Cerulean eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him. He’s seen acts just like this one countless times over millennia-- of course he has, he’s an angel-- but the dissonance of finding Crowley in such a position is enough to give him pause. 

Only a dim lamp illuminating the room, the fiery haired demon kneels in reverence next to the bed. His sunglasses are pushed up onto his head, eyes pressed closed with hands folded around a beaded chain, his elbows planted firmly on the mattress. Crowley caresses each bead with fingers impossibly more delicate than even those which stroke Aziraphale’s hair in the throes of ecstasy. 

He’s being immensely careful with the cross emblem that dangles from his hands, despite the fact that-- instead of pearl, glass, or pressed rose petal-- the beads Crowley pulls through his fingers are cheap plastic. Different neon colors strung together haphazardly on craft-store twine, the crucifix a crudely carved wood. 

Aware that he’s intruding but finding no ability to pull away, Aziraphale stifles a gasp when Crowley reaches the first large bead of the homemade rosary, and begins speaking louder-- the original latin sounding remarkably at home on his forked tongue. 

_ Mater noster, qui es in caelis, _

_ sanctificetur nomen tuum. _

_ Adveniat regnum tuum. _

_ Fiat voluntas tua, _

_ sicut in caelo, et in terra. _

_ Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, _

_ et dimitte nobis debita nostra, _

_ sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. _

_ Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, _

_ sed libera nos a malo. _

_ Amen. * _

The angel finds himself making the sign of the cross over his own bare chest as Crowley reaches the end. He flushes hard as he closes the door without so much as a click, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. 

“Oh Crowley!” He calls from the hall, practically drawling and a few clicks too loud, “that shower was positively lovely my dear, I rather think you’re right about these human rituals.” 

He throws open the door then, striding in and, unsurprisingly, finding the demon sprawled across the bed casually, his phone in hand and sunglasses sitting firmly on his nose. 

He plants a chaste kiss on Crowley’s cheek and settles down into bed, a lengthy novel appearing on his lap with a mere thought. 

* * *

Aziraphale smiles down at Crowley, having finished his book some hours later, the demon fast asleep on his chest. He cards his fingers through the red strands of hair, growing longer now than they’ve been in a decade in what feels like a small act of liberation to the angel-- not that he’d ever point that out.

He can understand Crowley’s reluctance to explain why he’d been so insistent about the showers before bed, about a routine that allowed him twenty minutes alone each night. Of course, regular prayer wasn’t exactly an expected thing after six millennia of demon-hood, but if Aziraphale really thinks on it, he can’t say he’s exactly surprised. 

After all, Crowley was one of the most faithful beings the angel had ever encountered-- himself included. Naturally he couldn’t be bothered to subscribe to any of the self serving bureaucracy that was heaven itself-- which, Aziraphale supposes-- is rather what got him kicked out in the first place. But even after a merciless fall, Crowley had maintained an incredible piety and morality that the angel had admired since Eden.

Aziraphale hadn’t known before now if Crowley still felt love for God, but through the millennia he’d watched the demon act with grace and compassion towards humans, never allowing temptation to do more than inconvenience. And when terrible things had happened through the course of history, Crowley had often been more affected than the angel. Where Aziraphale had accepted these things as part of God’s plan, Crowley had balked in disgust at the drowning of the children of Mesopotamia, had outright grieved the death of Christ. 

Again and again, he’d been privy to the depths of suffering that both heaven and hell could inflict, and to the downright cruelty with which humans had regarded one another over the centuries. And yet, he’d never faltered in his own goodness, at least not to the angel who knew him best. 

Through the strongest acts of sheer will which Aziraphale had ever borne witness-- over thousands of years of thankless earthly existence, and with all the right in the universe to be bitter, to be cold-- Crowley had continued to act with integrity, from his own heart, simply because he believed he could. And what was faith if not belief in the impossible? 

And so, the angel decides, if Crowley can still find solace in prayer, even after everything, by God he’d take a shower. 

* * *

It takes a bit of searching through boxes in the cellar-- moving house the human way did always leave one’s belongings in a questionable plane of existence, especially those one hadn't thought to look for in literal centuries. But the angel finds what he's searching for eventually, taking an impromptu trip into town under the guise of looking for a rare first edition the next day. 

Some days later, Crowley enters the bedroom with a sigh, pacing around uneasily until he hears the sound of the shower running in the next room. 

He opens the drawer of his nightstand and removes a worn box, frowning as he notes a rattling inside that feels much heavier than before. Looking over his shoulder first, Crowley gingerly removes the lid and up-ends the box, dumping a proper rosary onto the bed. Obsidian beads and silver chain shine back from the places where worn neon pony beads should be. 

With the tip of one finger, Crowley pokes the chain and pulls back quickly, hissing harshly as though it were a snake about to come alive and bite him. To his surprise, the chain simply lies there, glinting innocently in the lamplight.

Looking around again and listening to Aziraphale bustle about in the bathroom, the demon lifts the beads into his hands and allows himself to relish in the cold stone beneath his fingers. After a moment, he closes his eyes, daring to believe the chain won’t burn or bind him. 

He kneels then, crossing his chest and, with a deep breath, reaches for the crucifix and begins.

_ Credo in Deum Matrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae. _

_ et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum. ** _

He trails off then, the next words of the Apostles’ Creed on his lips as he feels_ something _. Not a burning per say, but a warmth spreading through his fingers in a way he's somehow incredibly familiar with and terribly foreign to, all at once. 

He opens his eyes again and squints at the beads, suddenly able to picture them in another place, another time-- draped over a pile of leather-bound books on a desk, tucked away in a drawer of bow-ties, and later, cast away in anger to the corner of a room, banished to a dark box somewhere as it became clear that heaven was only out for itself and humanity would burn, saints and sinners alike.

He turns the crucifix over and inhales sharply as he notices writing on the back-- the inscription shining and clean and obviously a very new addition to an incredibly old sacramental. And as he reads the words there, Crowley is washed over with a feeling of safety and love, and it's then he recognizes it, that warmth-- the same one he feels in the arms of the only other Holy thing he's ever been able to touch. 

He can hear that Aziraphale has finished his shower and is coming down the hall, but he finds he doesn't care to stop what he's doing as the door clicks open quietly and blue eyes fall upon his hunched shoulders. 

Those inscribed words become their own prayer, uttered over and over as Aziraphale watches on, reverent in his own observance. 

_ In paradisum deducant te Angeli. _

_ In paradisum deducant te Angeli. _

_ In paradisum deducant te Angeli.*** _

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
* Original Latin of Our Father/The Lord's Prayer. In this version it begins "Our mother who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name" 
> 
> **First lines, original latin of The Apostle's Creed. It reads here "I believe in God, the Mother almighty, creator of heaven and earth. / I believe in Jesus Christ, her only son, our lord" 
> 
> ***Latin for "may the angels lead you into paradise." Usually used as a chant in a Requiem Mass, but it fit oh so well here. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated. Come yell with me on tumblr at floweringscrubs.tumblr.com


End file.
